TELL YOUR MOM I WOULD HAVE BEEN HAPPY TO PAY HER, HAD THE RIMJOB BEEN OF HIGHER QUALITY

Monday, April 11, 2005

I Took Some Time Off, But I Don't Feel Any Better

Yessiree, I haven't been writing much. I've been practicing on the guitar, and have gotten the whole bar chord thing down pretty cold. Solos/scales/etc. are a little more taxing on the fingers, but I can occasionally make a sound come out that doesn't sound half bad. I wish I could plug into a real amp and just crank the thing, but my apartment is small and my neighbors are hateful evil people who extract their only pleasure in life from bitching to my landlord about the amount of noise I make. This is after I had switched to headphones for listening to records. They have even gone so far as to complain about the AMOUNT OF NOISE I MAKE WHILE SLEEPING. I am not making that up. Apparently, while I am deep in the intermittent slumber that passes for my sleep, the slight shift of my considerable bulk causes the floorboards to scream like banshees through megaphones. I also 'snore like a bear', according to the women who lives under me, who is, coincidentally, a whore at the alter of Lucifer. So unplugged I will be. For the past couple of weeks, rather then write and get a rash of shit from people, I've been working, going home, drinking, then going back to work the next day. It's not a horrible way to spend one's time, and rather then attempt to really do anything with my stagnant, unpleasant life (and undergo the horrible disappointment when I inevitably fail) I took a dry run and punching the clock until I die without trying to do anything even marginally creative. Either way is equally unpleasant and lonely. I don't know why I do Letters Have No Arms in the first place, I don't feel any real catharsis when I'm finished with something, nor do I look back at something I've written and feel any kind of pride. The free records I've gotten (and the books I am expecting now that I am part of Joe Bob Brigg's crack review team) are certainly nice, but I understand the reluctance of someone to send me something that I may just eviscerate because (like the past 31 years of my life) I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. On the rare occasions when I do look at something I've written, I feel ashamed. Not only at my very loose, childish grasp of the fundamentals of grammar, but more so my frustrating inability to express what I'm feeling, (which is usually hatred, disgust, or the strong desire to cause emotional pain in others). So, having not posted for awhile, I discovered I do miss expressing my hatred and bile rather then solely internalizing it. It doesn't make me feel any better, but it is nice to know I may cause someone else pain.

I am proud to announce that in addition to interviews with Ben Wallers, and Richard Hell (and more interviews are forthcoming), Letters Have No Arms has had it's first contributer, Mister Dinosaur Mahaffey. Mister Mahaffey is a reader who has been corresponding with yours truly over the past few months, and generously offered to share his contempt for the recent Suicide bio and his disdain for it's writer. I have yet to read the work, even if it seems like a black eye on the blood and viscera soaked crime scene that is contemporary rock writing, I am curious, if only for the subject.

Enjoy the words of Mister Mahaffey, and keep an eye peeled for some upcoming updates.

Yours,

Phil

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